


Strictly Ballroom

by wilderswans



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Blow Jobs, Coitus Interruptus, Dancing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, I hope you all appreciate how many videos of regency dances I watched for this fic, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Molly in a ballgown, Mutual Pining, Slow Dancing, Undercover as a Couple, and an excuse to put Caleb in a regency coat and cravat, high ballroom drama, not quite Regency AU but not quite anything else either, this fic is entirely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-13 12:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16018073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilderswans/pseuds/wilderswans
Summary: Caleb wasn't thrilled at the prospect of being glued to Molly’s side for an entire evening, sipping sparkling wines and eating expensive things on tiny skewers. Pretending to enjoy fancy music and being around pretentious people, pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Pretending to be in love with Molly.Well. He doesn’t have to pretend for that last.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is entirely, 1000% self-indulgent garbage and I apologize for nothing. For the full effect, pull up the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack to listen to while reading this :)
> 
> Many thanks to my beautiful girlfriend for finding Molly's ballgown for me in ten minutes after I'd spent hours trawling through pinterest, to the widomauk server for their enabling + cheerleading, and to you, for taking the time to read and leave comments+kudos if you feel so inclined. I sincerely appreciate it. ♥

“I don’t like this,” Caleb mutters, more for the sake of grumbling than to actually _do_ anything about it. Fjord snorts; Nott unscrews the lid of her flask and knocks back a swig before conscientiously wiping it with the ragged hem of her cloak and offering it to him.

“A little bit of liquid courage might help things along,” she says, and it’s testament to just how much Caleb does _not_ like this plan that he actually considers it for a good ten seconds or so.

“ _Nein_ , _danke_ ,” he says. “I shouldn’t drink before - before -”

As Nott takes the flask back he is suddenly gripped with the urge to snatch it up and start chugging. This coat is too tight and he is already beginning to feel himself sweat in the bottle-green velvet, and the cravat at the throat feels like it’s strangling him by degrees. The room is too bright with his hair out of his face and tied back into a small ponytail with one of Jester’s velvet ribbons; he feels utterly exposed. His face feels too smooth after Yasha’s meticulous job with her greatsword earlier that afternoon. He is sparkling clean, has been spritzed with a fine cologne of unknown origins thanks to Nott, and feels utterly unlike himself.

“At least you won’t be alone,” Fjord says sympathetically, mistaking Caleb’s silence for nervous apprehension. He rolls his eyes. “Sorry you’re gonna be stuck with Molly, though.”

That was, perhaps, Caleb’s largest misgiving about this whole shoddy plan. It would be one thing if it was anyone else in the Nein - but Beau was too brash, Yasha too enormous and shy, Jester too inclined to mischief, Fjord a little too unsure of social mores to blend in, too like a sailor. Nott was simply out of the question. 

Caleb would look normal enough at a ball, just another human in a frock coat and boots so polished he could see his reflection in them. While Molly wasn’t the most subtle person in a room, what he lacked in discretion he more than made up for in charm, personability (and here Caleb thinks everyone else agreed it _had_ to be Molly, to balance out his own tendency to be the wallflower), and, when it came right down to it, his willingness to cast _Friends_ on anyone he needed to. Caleb might freeze in a tight spot; Molly could simply charm his way out of it.

That doesn’t mean Caleb was thrilled at the prospect of being glued to Molly’s side for an entire evening, sipping sparkling wines and eating expensive things on tiny skewers. Pretending to enjoy fancy music and being around pretentious people, pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Pretending to be in love with Molly. 

Well. He doesn’t have to pretend for that last. 

He swallows, certain that his cravat had grown even tighter around his throat as Jester comes bounding down the stairs, looking even more ebullient than usual. 

“You _guys_ ,” she says, flapping her hands in excitement. “Wait till you see, Molly looks _so good_ , we are _geniuses_.” 

If anyone in the Nein were geniuses, Caleb muses privately, they might have come up with a better plan than “Sneak in with forged invitations to this invite-only ball to keep an eye on a certain nobleman while the rest of us break into his home,” but he keeps that to himself. 

Beau comes down next, groaning as she plops herself down onto the bench next to Fjord and helps herself to a swig from his tankard. “Fucking _finally_ ,” she grouses. “That took longer than every single time I’ve had to get ready in my life, all put together.” 

“You wear the same makeup for like, three days straight,” Jester points out, pulling a cookie out of her pocket and dunking it into the mug of milk she’d gotten from the bar.

“Yeah?” Beau shrugs. “It’s good for like, four or five days after. Saves me a shitload of time.”

“I don’t really think -” Fjord begins, then everyone is struck silent. Not just at their table, either; a hush descends over the entire bar as Mollymauk appears on the landing. 

Caleb had thought he would wear some of his usual nonsense - skintight, or ostentatious; at the worst he’d expected Molly to fashion a dress out of his ridiculous Platinum Dragon tapestry and float around offending everyone for the entire evening. 

This is...not that. 

He scarcely recognizes Molly, adorned as he is in a gown of frothy chiffon and lace, ears and neck and the tips of his horns glinting with jewels. The dusky purple of the gown’s airy skirts, and the ivory-and-gold filigree lacework of the bodice compliment the lavender of his skin and frame his physique to accentuate curves, soft despite the peeks of scarred skin that Caleb can glimpse due to the gown’s plunging neckline. Despite being some twenty years out of fashion, the frilled and gathered lace sleeves merely look timeless on Molly, and the chiffon of the skirt is layered and voluminous, though just sheer enough Caleb can see the curves of bare knees and calves, and feet in high heeled shoes. 

Caleb has to look away and swallow. Something about seeing the tender, bony knobs of Molly’s ankles strikes him as dreadfully intimate, like something he shouldn’t be seeing. 

Fjord’s whistling, long and low. “Damn, Molly,” he says, as the tiefling descends the stairs airily with Yasha, one hand perched on hers like Molly’s a grand duchess deigning to appear to an adoring public. “You look good.”

“I always look good,” Molly says, giving Fjord a cheeky wink. “But I look especially good right now, thanks to Jester and Yasha and Beau.” As he approaches the table - gods preserve Caleb - he can see that Molly’s hair has been arranged with product so it falls, curling, to one side. His lips, glossy and wine-dark, quirk, and up close Caleb can see both glittering gold lining his eyes and a soft pale shimmer on the curves of his cheekbones. 

He is the most breathtaking thing Caleb has ever seen.

“I thought the goal was to lie low,” Nott says, frowning as she takes in the whole effect, the whole _Mollyness_ of him. 

“What’s a ball without a belle to command all the attention?” Molly asks, swaying from side to side so the skirts of the gown rustle. “Look at it this way: Like this I can waltz right up to Lord Whats-his-face and ask he dance a few rounds with me. I keep an eye on him, Caleb keeps an eye on me, everything goes swimmingly.” 

 _Not bloody likely_ , Caleb thinks. With Molly looking like this he’ll punch Lord Damon-Cowles right in his ridiculously posh nose before he can even lay a finger on Molly. 

He tries not to let his face betray any of this, however, for Molly is looking at him in a rather scrutinizing manner. “ _Was,_ ” he finally says flatly. unable to stand the sheer frothy brilliance that is Mollymauk scrutinize him further. 

“You look - very dashing,” Molly says, unable to keep the corners of his mouth level. “We’re a proper pair, you and I. We ought to dress you up more often.” 

Caleb doesn’t know what to say, how to react, with Molly looking at him like this. Then he remembers Molly is not looking at him at all - he is looking at the illusion of him, trussed up in too-tight velvet and polished boots, a Caleb that is not actually Caleb.

“We should leave,” he says at last, turning on his heel to escape out the front door, and trying to ignore the confusion that’s crossed over Molly’s face.

 

 

***

 

 

Nightwood is the ancient stronghold of the Shellfords, a landed noble family high in the echelons of the Dwendalian elite. Lady Genevive Shellford is the hostess of tonight’s gala, and lucky for the Nein her taste in company is rather more egalitarian than her father’s - rather than a rarefied company of a few dozen noble families that would usually attend such a ball, invitations had been extended to several of the wealthy merchant class and several foreign families who weren’t necessarily dignitaries. The crowd is a little more colorful, therefore and Caleb feels a wave of relief as Fjord in his second-hand footman’s duds snaps the reins and sets the carriage in motion away from Nightwood’s worn stone stairs. He can see a half-elf woman in a flowing dress arm-in-arm with a human nobleman in a fine coat; now exiting another carriage onto the stairs appears to be a pair of dragonborns in resplendent silks. Even outside he can smell perfume and hot candle wax. It makes him feel a little dizzy. 

“Hey,” Molly says, patting his elbow. Caleb only blinks at him for a few moments before realizing he’s meant to take Molly’s arm. “Are you all right?” 

Caleb does. If Molly feels him shaking, well, he can chalk it up to social anxiety. “I would rather not be here,” he murmurs, as they ascend the stairs into the estate’s grand hall. Laughter and faint strains of music drift out from the gleaming double doors of polished ebony wood. A terrible thought occurs to him suddenly, and all Caleb wants to do is turn tail and flee. 

“What if Ikithon is here,” he whispers hoarsely. “Or - or Astrid, or Eodwulf, what if they recognize me -”

Paranoia and fear grip him in blinding white fingers; he can’t breathe. His cravat is too damn tight and all he can do is claw at it helplessly, until strong and calloused fingers close gently around his wrists. 

“Caleb, darling.” Mollymauk’s voice is cutting through the panic. “If you see them, we’ll avoid them if we can - or if you’d like, you can send me to distract them. I can be very attention-grabbing, don’t you think?” 

“You can.” Caleb nods, swallowing. Molly’s thumbs are tracing the thin blue veins on the insides of his wrists, up and down, soft but ultimately impossible to ignore. He tries forcing a breath through his nostrils, closing his eyes to the sight of the iridescent ivory color that Molly has painted his nails. “I - I am sorry, Mollymauk, I am not the best person for this job. I wish to the gods Fjord was here instead of me.”

“I don’t,” Molly says baldly. Caleb can feel him shift closer, can smell the soft jasmine of his perfume. Mollymauk leans in as if to kiss Caleb’s forehead again, then must think better of it. “Sorry, it’s just - my lipstick.”

“I understand,” Caleb says. Mollymauk still hasn’t released his wrists, and with his eyes closed the contact is wonderful. Grounding, firm as if to say _you are here_ , but not harsh or demanding. “Why don’t you wish Fjord was here instead?” 

“Have you ever danced with him?” Molly says flatly. “Love the man to death, but he’s all left feet and dances like he’s still at sea.” 

“There goes my plan to ask the band to play a shanty,” Caleb says dryly. Molly - there’s no other word for it - giggles.

“Imagine the looks on all the rich folks’ faces when the band breaks out the accordion!”

“And us, in the middle of the floor dancing a jig, like we’re a week’s sailing away from the Menagerie Coast,” Caleb says. Oddly, the banter makes him feel a bit better. His breath no longer comes short, and the panic in his chest is gradually subsiding under the soft press of Molly’s hands. Mollymauk must pick up on this as well, for he chuckles and releases Caleb’s wrists.

“Perhaps we can talk the party into doing a lively hornpipe or two,” he says. “How do you do this damn thing up again?” 

A pluck comes at the wad of linen fabric at Caleb’s throat, and he finally opens his eyes to find Molly lifting one end of the cravat, then the other, looking helpless. Caleb bites his lip, trying not to feel faint again at the proximity. 

“I thought it was like tying bootlaces,” he admits, “but apparently not.”

Molly’s nimble fingers attempt a bow knot, but the way he purses his lips make Caleb think it’s not quite right. The feeling of the cravat being undone once again confirms this, and he suddenly has to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep thinking about other situations in which he might like Molly undoing his neckties. 

But that is a very dangerous line of thought, with Molly so near as he fusses over the loose ends of the silky white fabric.

“Hold on, I think I remember -” Molly’s muttering, and there’s the sensation of the tie being pulled and mussed, the gentle silken rasp of it against the coat lining. A few moments later Molly makes a sound of triumph.

“There we are,” he says brightly. “You should see yourself, this one is much better. Very dignified.” 

“A different knot?” Caleb asks, feeling out the arrangement of fabric at his throat. It doesn’t feel like it is choking him, now, but he can’t tell if that’s the way this knot is meant to sit, or if Molly tied it with his comfort in mind.

“Back when I was - new,” Molly says, a moment of hesitation as he considers the term. “Before I knew much of anything, and couldn’t do much in the way of circus acts, Desmond used to let me watch him dress - _not_ like that,” he adds, for Caleb’s eyebrows have crept up in surprise. “I liked the colors and textures of his costumes, and watching everyone paint their faces, so he would let me watch and chattered at me about how it was done all the while. Sometimes he would wear a neckcloth like this,” he says, and plucks the knot of the cravat. 

Caleb can imagine the scene all too vividly - lantern light reflecting off of sequins and the smell of greasepaint, the fascination and attentiveness with which Molly might watch a very flashy person don a costume and step into a persona. “That is a good memory,” he says, and it comes out softer than he means it to. He likes hearing about Molly’s good memories.

Molly, if he notices, doesn’t say anything. He steps back to admire his handiwork, straightens the bodice of his gown, and offers Caleb his arm. “Are you ready?”

Caleb takes Molly’s arm, a little tremulous at the contact. He makes himself focus on each minute task, one after the other - one foot, then the next, ascending the stone stairs to the grand doors, ignore the waft of Molly’s perfume and the warm press of him against Caleb’s side. Follow a laughing group of halfling women, hair done up in ringlets into which live flowers are tucked, inside. Don’t get overwhelmed by the sudden noise of voices, so many voices, and so much laughter and music, as arm-in-arm they promenade down the hall to the grand ballroom, down a flight of double stairs flanked by footmen and servants. 

The sight is...it’s overwhelming, but it’s enough to take his breath away for the second time that evening. He hears a sharp intake of breath from Molly at his side; they’re standing so close he wouldn’t have heard it otherwise. 

A floor of gleaming white marble, illuminated by a gleaming crystal chandelier, is filled with people dancing in whirls of flouncing lace and spinning velvet, to which a full troupe of musicians is playing a lively accompaniment on a raised dais. To the sides and spilling into the hallways on either sides of the ballroom people are gathered in small groups to chat and laugh. The candles in the chandelier must be enchanted with a clever bit of spellwork, for as they stand above the fray the light in the room shifts from golden candleglow to a shimmering variety of greens and pinks, before switching to aqueous blues and teals.

“This is wonderful,” Molly says, rapturous, taking in the noise and splendor of it all. Caleb risks stealing a glance at him, the soft lavender of his skin and deeper purple of his gown cast in oceanic hues in the changing light, gazing up at the enchanted chandelier and the luxurious draperies hanging from the walls, garlanded with waxy white flowers and swaths of verdant leaves. 

“ _Ja_ ,” he agrees, before he can help himself. “Wonderful.”

 

 

***

 

 

Luckily, it is only the nobility who are announced to the room, and they’re free to mingle after presenting a footman with their (forged) invitation. It passes muster, and though the footman blinks a little at Molly, he bows and beckons them to continue. 

Molly snatches the both of them flutes of sparkling white wine from a passing waiter after they’d descended one of the staircases together, and set up at the far left corner of the room overlooking the dance floor. He has to press the glass into Caleb’s hand.

“Drink a little,” he says. “You’ll draw more attention to us by looking like you’ve a stick up your arse.” 

“I cannot see him - Lord Damon-Cowles,” Caleb mutters, taking the glass but not drinking from it, pointedly ignoring the comment. Peering across the dance floor is a useless pursuit, as the dance is still quite lively; he cannot focus on a single face in particular. An icy jolt of fear stabs him in the gut. “What if he hasn’t arrived yet - or what if he isn’t even coming after all, what if he’s still at home and the whole plan has to be -” 

“Darling,” Molly says, stepping closer. Caleb bites his lip - with the addition of the high heeled shoes, Molly stands taller than him now, and gods, that shouldn’t appeal to him as much as it does. “Drink your wine, and join me for a dance when you’re done. If anything goes screwy, we bought Jester those Scrolls of Sending for a reason.” 

Caleb hesitates, then knocks back the glass of wine. Molly is right, of course. Bigger plans than this have gone tits-up, and they’re better prepared now than they’ve ever been. And the wine really is excellent, sweet and fizzing on his tongue, and the candles have changed from blue to gold again, and Mollymauk is beautiful in his gown. He can’t help but notice the look of pride on Molly’s face when he sets the glass down on a nearby little table and exhales. 

“ _Ja_ ,” he says. “Okay. Let’s - let’s go.” 

“Good man,” Molly grins, and leads him by the hand onto the floor. 

The lively dance from earlier has mellowed into something reasonably more sedate, though energetic enough in its own right, lead by a crystalline violin. Two rows of dancers line the floor; Caleb finds himself staring across the marble floor to Mollymauk, wedged in-between a half-elf in a blue vest and trousers, and a handsome human man in a silky dove-gray coat. As the end of one tune fades into the beginning of a reel, Molly shoots him a little wink across the floor, and Caleb just about trips over his damn feet as the dance starts. 

It is similar enough to the dances of his youth that he can follow along - an uncomplicated meeting of the two rows, with bows and circles, all led by the jubilant notes of the violin. Caleb takes the arm of a copper-skinned elven woman in forest-green; they circle around each other before exchanging for the next partner, a tan human man in an ostentatious robe of purple and gold who, Caleb feels, lets his hand rest overlong on Caleb’s arm before they have to part again, retreating to the original lines. An interlude of every other pair stepping forward to dance and circle, then Caleb and Molly are stepping towards each other. 

“Having fun?” Molly murmurs at him. 

“That is one word for it,” Caleb admits, as together they spin in a measured circle between the two rows of people. 

“I think someone’s quite taken with you already,” Molly observes, leaving Caleb confused as they bow and part, stepping back to their original positions. The two rows step closer together as one, and then Caleb realizes Molly is referring to the tan-skinned man in purple and gold. 

He has to wait to respond until they pass each other in the dance again, and it is some beats until he can murmur, “He is not my type,” at Molly, before moving to offer the half-elf in the blue vest his arm. 

This, at least, brings back good memories: Chatting with friends between the waves of the dance, snatching bits of conversation here and there as the flow of bodies allows. Molly smirks until he and Caleb pass each other again, and says over the music, “Too ostentatious for you?” 

Buoyed by the fizz of wine and the lightness of dance, the cheerful music and the warmth of Molly’s proud smile before they stepped onto the floor, Caleb is utterly tempted to say something like, _He is not my kind of ostentatious_ , but then Jester’s voice erupts in his head. 

“ _Hi Caleb! Fjord is making me count out the words, Lord Fancypants is gone, we’re going in! Have fun! Try to kiss Molly before midnight!_ ” 

Caleb blinks and rather bungles the next move of the dance; he struggles to catch himself and respond at the same time. “Be careful,” he says, thinking of Jester and impervious to the confused glance from his dance partner. “See you later, and don’t let Nott steal everything.” 

The next time he passes Molly in another close circle, he taps his wrist to get his attention. “Damon-Cowles is on his way,” he murmurs. Molly’s lips curl into a pleased grin that makes Caleb go a little weak in the knees. He has to firmly put Jester’s last instructions from his mind, otherwise he’ll trip over himself outright. 

“See, nothing to worry about,” Molly says breezily, right as they part and retreat back into the original rows. The song is dying down; each dancer bows or curtsies to the person opposite them before the groups dissolve. Caleb retreats from the floor, caught between feeling pleased and immense guilt. It was enough that he let himself go for one dance, caught up in the music and the thought of - maybe, just maybe - flirting with Molly, but Jester’s voice in his head was a stark reminder that they were there to _do_ something, and he couldn’t let himself get distracted. Not by dancing, not by beautiful tieflings in chiffon gowns. 

Gods, it’s going to be a long night.

 

 

***

 

 

Three more dances pass, and Caleb watches Molly spin and glide through them with a surprising amount of grace and poise, as if he has been dancing at balls all his life. He waves on waiter after waiter with trays of sparkling wine, or steaming mugs of spiced mead, until he’s finally handed a glass of fizzing ginger beer, tart with lime and sweet with some sort of tropical fruit and - thankfully - not alcoholic. He needs to keep his wits about him. He sips at it pensively, watching Molly, and keeping an ear out for Lord Damon-Cowles to be announced. 

On the floor, Molly curtsies at the close of another dance, before joining the rest of the dancers in a polite round of applause for the musicians. He looks radiant, and just as Caleb thinks that, the lights change from a sky blue to a shimmering silver, and Caleb’s breath threatens to stop as the fine-wrought chains draped between Molly’s horns catch the light and glimmer, like a crown of stars suspended above his dark curls. 

Then, from the top of the stairs, a footman bellows, “Lord Remington Damon-Cowles, of Bronzeport!” 

Molly spins around on the floor in a whirl of chiffon and sparkles, eyes locking with Caleb’s across the room. 

They know what Damon-Cowles looks like; even if they hadn’t, they’d know to look for the richest person in the room besides Lady Shellford. Up close, Caleb is mildly surprised to find that Damon-Cowles is shorter than he’d initially thought, almost a full head shorter than him. The embroidered cloth-of-gold robes he’s wearing clash magnificently with his wavy ginger hair, tied back like Caleb’s, and now that he’s descending the staircase Caleb can see his eyes, for all they’re strikingly blue, are a bit small and watery. 

Another day, another rich asshole to steal from. 

Molly’s heels click on the marble even as Damon-Cowles languidly makes his way down the stairs and the ball resettles itself, the band striking up an energetic mazurka. He nabs another flute of wine from a passing waiter and sips it as he closes the gap between him and Caleb. 

“That’s our man?” he murmurs, following the Lord’s descent down the stairs. 

“The very same,” Caleb says. He frowns a little at the way Molly drains the wine. “And you should not be drinking so fast.”

“Dancing is a lot more exercise than I thought,” Molly admits, setting the empty flute aside. He smirks at Caleb. “If you think I’m going to be useless after a few sips of wine, clearly you weren’t paying attention in Hupperdook.” 

And, just to be an ass, he takes two flutes of wine from the next waiter that passes and sips daintily from both, batting his eyelashes at Caleb the entire time. 

Caleb tries to ignore this in favor of watching Damon-Cowles make a slow circuit around the room, obscured occasionally by moving dancers and people who stop to speak with him in little congregations. Lord Remington Damon-Cowles is by no means the nastiest bit of nobility they’ve encountered, but there are some suspect and very likely _highly_ illegal trade manifests locked in his study that the Nein need. Unfortunately, what Lord Remington Damon-Cowles lacks in nastiness he more than makes up for in dullness, and it is therefore Molly and Caleb’s duty to ensure the noble homebody doesn’t take an early night from the only social event that fits within their required timetable, and subsequently run into the crew of assorted idiots burgling him.

Molly sets aside the empty wineglasses and stands next to Caleb, also observing. “Should I go speak to him?” he asks, tapping a foot _click click click_ on the marble floor.

“ _Nein_ ,” Caleb says softly. “If he looks like he wants to start leaving, then you should.” 

Molly’s eyes narrow as the chandelier shifts into a dark red, dimming the light in the room considerably. “Damn. Looks like he’s going to be stuck with those people for a while. Fancy another dance?”

“You go ahead,” Caleb says. He doesn’t much fancy the idea of being stuck on the floor in the middle of a dance if Damon-Cowles starts to leave. Molly, however, hesitates. 

“It wouldn’t kill you to have a bit of fun, while we’re here,” he says softly. “I think I even saw you smile, during that first dance.” 

Caleb bites his lip. Maybe he did, but then as soon as the dance was over the illusion got crushed under the weight of the job they had to do. Caleb was not a fine, normal person who could dress up in a fancy coat to attend a ball and rub shoulders with nobility, any more than Molly was his date for said ball. Perhaps it had been his fault for forgetting that during the dance. 

“The dance is starting,” he says instead, and tries to focus on Damon-Cowles instead of how disappointed Molly looks when he disappears back into the crowded dance floor.

 

 

***

 

 

Damon-Cowles doesn’t make any signs that he’s going to leave for nearly three-quarters of an hour, and Molly doesn’t return from the dance floor in nearly that long. On one occasion he meets Caleb’s eyes as he crosses the room for a glass of wine, and for a moment Caleb fancies he’s going to say something, but then his beautiful painted lips purse and he drinks his wine instead. 

Balls are, by and large, hopelessly boring when one isn’t doing any dancing, drinking, or flirting. Caleb does a marvelous job of holding up the wall, watching the dances and Damon-Cowles both, feeling his near-empty stomach begin to grow sour with hunger. 

He sighs. The smells of food waft down a wide corridor just off the grand ballroom, causing mutinous rumbles from within his fine velvet coat with each wave of roast meat and spices, but he can’t abandon his self-appointed post. Molly is dancing, and Damon-Cowles is still mingling, and he can’t let the nobleman out of his sight. 

“You look like you’re having a wonderful time,” comes a voice to his right. Caleb glances over to realize it’s the man from the first dance, dark-haired and holding a plate of food, mostly an assortment of dainty things on skewers. In close proximity, now that he is standing still, Caleb notices both the subtle shimmer to his robes and the intense waves of arcane energy rolling off of the man.

“Balls are fun,” Caleb says weakly. The man raises an eyebrow, utterly unconvinced, but offers Caleb the plate anyway.

“ _Danke_ ,” Caleb says, helping himself to a meatball coated in some sort of orange sauce. It’s intensely flavorful, savory and slightly smokey on his tongue, and his ravenous stomach howls for more. It is the only meatball on the plate, however, and he cannot go back to the food tables without losing his line of sight on Damon-Cowles. 

The man in the purple chews, pensive, on a flaky bite-sized square of mushroom and onion tart before swallowing and glancing at Caleb. “I apologize - we haven’t even introduced ourselves yet. How terribly rude of me. I’m Shaun Gilmore.” 

The name is vaguely familiar to Caleb. He nods, because Gilmore’s hands are full of food and plate and he doesn’t feel like skin contact right now anyway. “Caleb,” he says, leaving off a surname because he’d been counting on Mollymauk to lie about names and origins if they were pressed. “A pleasure, _Herr_ Gilmore.”

Gilmore smiles, genuine and warm, and offers Caleb the plate again. “Shaun to my friends, please. Help yourself, I’m afraid my eyes were larger than my stomach when I was at the buffet.” 

Caleb takes a little slice of toasted bread, spread with a soft cheese and topped with a bright dollop of tart berry preserve. He was trepidatious about this man during the dance, but speaking with him face to face, he finds himself somewhat charmed by Gilmore’s gregarious smile. “Well then, Shaun. _Danke_ for sharing your food with me. It is, ah - very kind of you.” 

“Your accent is charming,” Gilmore says plainly, nibbling on a skewer of assorted cheeses. “Where are you from, if I may ask?”

“Ah, the -” Caleb swallows. “Blumenthal. The Zemni Fields. I don’t expect you’ve been there.” 

“No, alas, I am a stranger to these parts by and large,” says Gilmore. “Such is the nature of traveling - just when you think you’ve been everywhere, you meet someone new from someplace you’ve never heard of. The Zemni Fields,” he says, half-musing. “And the lovely creature in the violet gown you arrived with - are they from the Zemni Fields as well?” 

“Ah, no,” Caleb says. “Molly is from -” He hesitates, unsure of what to say. While he thinks this Gilmore fellow would not take offense if he says Molly is from the circus - he does not seem so highbrow as the people throwing this party - he is hesitant to give away much more information that could lead authorities back to the Nein, if somehow the plan goes awry. “Mollymauk travels frequently as well,” he says, deciding that is safe enough.

At his silence, however, Gilmore’s expression had grown more understanding. “My apologies,” he says. “I thought the two of you were together.” 

Caleb chokes on the miniature spinach puff he’d lifted from the plate. “Oh, uh - I - that is - we are friends,” he says, sounding lame even to himself.

“Well then,” Gilmore says, brightening considerably. “If that is the case, then will your friend mind terribly if I steal you for a dance or two?” 

Caleb thinks about it, glancing out at the dance floor. The band is playing a cheerful quadrille, and it is easy to find Mollymauk in his frothy chiffon out on the floor, bobbing and weaving in time with the green-clad elven woman from the first dance. But he also has to look around the hall for Damon-Cowles, and finds the Lord in the far corner, champagne glass in hand and gesturing excitedly at someone. He can’t hear the conversation over the noise and music, but he suspects politics are involved. 

Turning back to Gilmore, Caleb shakes his head. “You are very kind,” Caleb says. “But I do not much feel like dancing right now.”

To his credit, Gilmore takes this in his stride. “That is fair enough,” he says, giving Caleb a twinkling smile. “Come find me if you change your mind. And feel free to eat what’s left, I think I might like to move on to dessert.” With that, he hands the plate over to Caleb and heads back out towards the food, glimmering purple robes rustling with his movement. 

Very ostentatious, but Caleb found himself liking Gilmore nonetheless. Conversation hadn’t made him any more Caleb’s kind of ostentatious, the kind he liked. That kind of ostentatious is out on the dance floor, currently being twirled in a flurry of skirts by the elven woman as the song winds down. 

As most of the old crowd of dancers on the floor clear out to be replaced by a new wave of partygoers lately arrived, Molly approaches Caleb with high color on his cheeks, fanning himself with a hand. He helps himself to one of the delicacies left on the plate, chewing as he speaks. “Who was that? The man from earlier?” 

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb says cautiously. With the bustle and movement of the new dancers on the floor as the flutes begin to lead the next tune, he’s still trying to keep an eye on Damon-Cowles. “His name is Gilmore; apparently he is very well-traveled.” 

Molly reaches for another little tart, still chewing. His manners are rather gauche, but Caleb suspects that wearing a fancy ball gown creates the illusion that Molly is well-mannered and high-bred - an illusion that other partygoers choose to not see through. “Huh,” he says, swallowing. “Are you going to go for it?” 

“I - what?” Caleb feels color rising on his face.

“I said,” Molly says, taking a bite of the next tart, “are you going to go for it? It being him. Him being whatever is in his pants, if that’s on offer.” 

 _Fuck it_ , Caleb decides, and flags down a waiter bearing a heavy tray laden with wineglasses. Molly just arches his eyebrows as Caleb takes a glass and drinks. “Your silence is also an answer,” he observes, helping himself to another glass as well. There’s a twist to his lips Caleb hasn’t seen before; he suspects Molly is laughing at him, but is too polite to do it outright. “Any news from Jester?” Molly asks abruptly, as the waiter gracefully strides onward to the next gaggle of guests. 

Caleb sips at the wine, still feeling flushed and embarrassed. His ears are still hot. “None.” 

Molly hums, still eating and drinking. “Well, no news might be good news. Our man is still here, I see.” 

Together they peer across the room as Damon-Cowles stands, back turned to them, next to a potted plant and an excitable, slender dragonborn lady in a heavy brocade gown who gesticulates wildly in her conversation. 

“He doesn’t look like he’s escaping that conversation any time soon,” Mollymauk says with a wince of sympathy. Unfortunately the Lord’s back is turned to them, so they can’t see what if he looks bored or not. 

“ _Nein_ ,” Caleb says. Eyeing the glass left in the bottom of his wineglass he shrugs and tosses the rest of it back, feeling the pleasant glow of fine alcohol settle in his stomach. “But that works to our advantage.” 

“I feel like we’re getting away with murder here,” Molly muses. “We got the glamorous job. Everyone else is....” He trails off, knowing better than to say _breaking into an estate_ out loud in a ballroom filled with rich people. “Well, they’re certainly not drinking good wine and dancing.” 

“No, they are not,” Caleb agrees. 

They lapse into silence, standing side by side as the party blissfully charges on. The enchanted chandelier’s lights shift from gold to peacock blue over the energetic group of dancers, promenading about in a circle dance more complicated than Caleb would be comfortable with. 

Despite the overpowering scent of food and the warm fragrance of melting candlewax and the decorative hothouse blooms wreathed about as living decoration, Caleb can still smell the soft floral of Molly’s perfume. He risks a sideward glance at the tiefling, looking out at the joyful motion of the dancers out on the floor as he sips his wine. When he pulls the glass away, Caleb can see a port-colored lip print on the rim of the glass, and something about the moment - the fizzing golden wine in its elegant glass, the soft blue lighting flickering above, the lip print like Molly has kissed the glass - strikes him as so beautiful his chest aches.

Why, then, does Mollymauk look so sad?

Caleb runs his finger around the stem of the wineglass, over and over, until the cool crystal is warm from his skin. Is Mollymauk all right? He was having such a grand time just a few minutes ago - perhaps something he ate disagreed with him, or the effort of so much dancing is catching up with him. 

Then Molly turns to set his wineglass down and smile at him, so brightly that Caleb would scarcely believe he was capable of such sadness if he hadn’t just seen it with his own eyes. “While Lord Damon-Cowles is currently indisposed, you should come dance with me,” he offers. “It looks suspicious that you’re just hanging out here alone.”

Admittedly, it does look more suspect if Caleb is just holding down his square of marble tile by himself, watching from afar rather than joining in. He began wearing the persona of someone who enjoys being around people as soon as he put on the coat; he knows he might as well make the best of it. Still, the question of watching Damon-Cowles remains, even if he doesn’t look like he’s leaving any time soon. 

The current dance finishes to a polite round of applause from the dancers, and a brief lull in music as the dancers sip water, rosin bows and stretch their limbs, change pages in their scorebooks atop the little flower-garlanded dais. Caleb’s gaze is trapped between Damon-Cowles and Molly, whose smile is fading, and that makes Caleb’s mind for him. 

“I - _ja_ ,” he murmurs, nodding. Molly looks radiant when he smiles again, offering Caleb his hand and letting him lead him out onto the floor as the warm opening notes of music begin anew. 

Molly maneuvers them both to a prime spot where they can both keep an eye on their quarry, and just then Caleb realizes - this is not a group dance to be done in rows. He stands facing Mollymauk some forty feet from the bandstand, amid a sea of other pairs on the marble floor as a demure-sounding violin begins to play above the other instruments. 

Oh. Oh no. 

Caleb realizes too late that it is a waltz.

Too late he places one hand on Molly’s waist, and then they’re moving, stepping in measured paces to the simple tune as he scrambles to hold Molly’s hand at the proper height. Of course he knows how to waltz, of course, he waltzed with Astrid and Eodwulf both at every Academy formal function that featured music, but that might as well have never happened because everything he knows about dancing flies out the window when he looks up - the slight difference in their heights now that Mollymauk is wearing high heels - and sees Mollymauk looking at him like he is the only thing in the room. 

“It has ah -” Caleb stammers, feeling the flesh on the back of his neck prickle with embarrassment as they step, spin, step to that melodic violin. “It has been quite a while since I danced like this.” 

“I’ve never danced like this,” Molly admits, allowing Caleb to spin him a beat too late when they notice every other person on the floor spinning. 

“Never?” Caleb tries to cast his mind back to that alcohol-hazed night in Hupperdook - had Molly danced with anyone? He briefly recalls dancing with Jester, but something about the memory is sour and he cannot remember what. Molly just shakes his head.

“Never,” he says, as they rotate slowly around the floor. The waltz is sweet and unhurried, and something about the music strikes Caleb as inherently wistful, although he’s never heard it before. With the golden light of the chandelier above and the scent of jasmine all around him, it puts him in mind of springtime - all birdsong and nostalgia. 

Then he looks up into Molly’s eyes and suddenly he’s not thinking of birds at all. 

He has to swallow, wet his parched lips with his tongue as he spins Molly in a tempest of violet skirts once more. The steps of the waltz are simple enough that his feet take over, freeing his mind to have a silent breakdown about his hand on Molly’s waist, the bare skin where their joined hands are touching. 

 _One-two-three, one-two-three_ , along they waltz, Caleb so mindful of how warm Molly’s skin is. He hopes that Molly is paying attention to Lord Damon-Cowles’ position in the room, because like an idiot on the first sunny day in spring, he’s gotten lovestruck over the object of his adoration and gotten distracted from what he’s actually supposed to be doing. 

“This is fun, isn’t it?” Molly asks, in the pause between words. His voice is muted beneath the music. “All of this, I mean. It’s...it’s nice.” 

“It’s a nice change from our usual being shot at,” Caleb says. “Or stabbed. Or being clapped in irons and thrown into jail.” 

“The night is young,” Molly says, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Caleb, I -”

Sudden movement from the periphery of the ballroom catches Caleb’s eye, and he curses himself for a fool. “ _Scheisse_. Damon-Cowles is on the move again.” Sure enough, the Lord in his highly-gilt robes has managed to extricate him from the one conversation and is leisurely making his way up the righthand side of the ballroom, sipping at a glass of red wine and looking out at the dancers and musicians with a mild sort of disinterest. 

Molly hisses a quiet oath in Infernal. Waltzes never last terribly long, but they can’t just break the dance and run off of the floor to waylay him. That would be suspicious to the point of idiocy. Molly bites his lip, brow furrowed as Caleb spins him once more. 

“He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave,” he murmurs to Caleb. “But he’s not looking like he’s enjoying staying too much, either. _Fuck_ , when will we hear back from Jester?” 

“I don’t know,” Caleb says. He’s trying not to be worried - silence from the rest of the group means either things are going just as planned, or things have absolutely fallen to shit. “All I do know is this waltz needs to hurry up and end.” 

Molly bites his lip again. “I have a plan,” he says, with none of his usual bravado. “But you have to work with me.” 

“What is it?”

“How strong are you feeling?”

“Uhm.” On a good day, Caleb doesn’t struggle to hoist his travel sack with all his gear inside. But that’s a good day. “Strong enough?” He doesn’t know what for, but as long as he’s not supposed to be lifting Molly into the air, he thinks he can manage. 

Molly glances back at Damon-Cowles, then at the musicians and their fellow dancers, and appears to make a decision. “Dip me.” 

“ _Was?_ ” 

Caleb doesn’t think he heard Molly right, but then the tiefling is stepping into his space, guiding his hands tight around his waist and around his back. His fingers cradle the back of Molly’s neck. His hair is incredibly soft, Caleb notices, and it’s like he’s been struck by lightning. 

“Step into a lunge,” Molly hisses beneath his breath, already descending, and Caleb clumsily manages to maneuver himself into a half-leaning sort of pose, knee bent just in time for Molly to dip towards it, rearranging his weight so the move looks effortless, rather than awkward. Caleb supports him as best he can, already feeling his scholar’s muscles beginning to strain as Molly’s arms clasp around his shoulders for support. 

It must look better than it feels, for there’s a breath of silence before the other dancing pairs break into applause as Molly and Caleb stare at each other, Caleb’s chest heaving. 

Molly’s lips quirk at him, and they’re so close, arms around each other, so intimate. If he leaned in further, Caleb could - he could -

“Lord Fancypants,” Molly whispers at him, and Caleb snaps back to reality as the assorted crowd around them is still applauding. Caleb pulls him back up and Molly, ever the showman, steps away for a flourishing bow that rustles the lace on the sleeves of his gown. Caleb, too, figures he should bow, but it’s abrupt and short before Molly takes his hand and floats the two of them away from the dance floor, all in a leisurely rush.

Lord Damon-Cowles hasn’t quite made a full circle of the room. Caleb can see Molly’s wheels spinning as they approach, looking for all the world like they’re not in a rush at all. 

“Be a darling and get some wine?” Molly says, voice low. “Two glasses, please.” He pats Caleb’s arm and peels away, leaving an increasingly-bewildered wizard to flag down the nearest waiter. 

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Molly approach the lord, nearly towering over him. Caleb manages to procure two glasses of wine, this time a soft pink color, served in bowl-like glasses garnished with flower petals. _Jester would love these_ , he thinks, carrying them back to Mollymauk and trying to ignore the stab of worry he feels at the lack of communication from her. 

“Ah, thank you, darling,” Mollymauk says when he approaches with the glasses. He takes two and all but pushes one into Lord Damon-Cowles’ hand, the other already occupied by the glass of red wine, leaving Caleb with none. “As I was saying, your Lordship, my compatriots and I have been very impressed with that last trade deal made in...” 

His voice fades away as he pointedly steers Damon-Cowles’ back away from the staircase and back closer to the dance floor, all the while in the guise of leisurely highbrow conversation. Caleb can’t help but notice, as he’s being left behind, that Lord Remington Damon-Cowles - the rich bastard - seems far more engaged talking to Mollymauk than he did any of the other guests and nobility who’d had his ear earlier in the evening. 

He can only watch, a hollow feeling rapidly spreading through his gut, as Molly laughs winningly at something Damon-Cowles says, holding a hand to the bodice of his gown. 

 _He does not even need to cast Friends_ , Caleb realizes. In the space of three minutes, Mollymauk has managed to wrap their quarry firmly around his little finger.

It makes him feel like he’s going to be sick. 

It is false, a charade. He _knows_ it is a charade - there is no feeling, no real warmth behind Mollymauk’s smile when he coyly toasts to another thing Damon-Cowles has said, unheard from the distance. But Mollymauk is nothing if not a talented liar, and Caleb also knows this. It is hard not to be convinced by how hard Mollymauk is flirting with the lord, even if he knows it is all pretend. All for the task at hand. 

It doesn’t make him feel any less bitter and angry when he sees Mollymauk clink his and Damon-Cowles’ glasses together. 

Blindly he reaches out for the next passing tray, uncaring of whatever it holds. What he sips on is a sort of lemonade with a rather healthy dollop of gin, and though it tastes like liquid sunshine as he stands and drinks and watches Mollymauk flirt with Damon-Cowles, it doesn’t brighten his mood any.

 

 

***

 

 

Nearly half an hour passes as Caleb has to stand and watch Mollymauk flirt, and the display of it all only makes him feel sicker and tight with fragile anger. He drinks through the lemonade, then another, and while the buzz is momentarily pleasant, watching Lord Damon-Cowles go so far as to place a hand on Molly’s - and _keep it there_ as they speak - makes him refrain from drinking more, for fear that he might do something monumentally stupid. 

He is merely a poor, shabby, pathetic wizard trying to lay low at a party for very rich people. It wouldn’t do to succumb to his anger and do something rash. Like setting the richest, poshest person in the whole building on fire, for example. 

Rationally, Caleb knows he has no claim on Mollymauk. He has never said anything, done anything, to give any intimation of his feelings away. That was purposeful. For months, he’s privately decided it was easier to hold his feelings close to his chest - not only his feelings for Mollymauk, but for the whole group. Even if he danced with Jester and joked with Beau and enjoyed his conversations with Fjord, in his logical mind it was always him and Nott, ready to strike off on their own again at a moment’s notice. 

His heart hadn’t quite gotten the memo. 

So quietly he loved his companions, and quietly fell in love with Mollymauk, all the while saying nothing. Attempting to feel nothing. 

Perhaps he deserves this - this horrible sting as he watches someone else touch Mollymauk’s arm with intention, the way he’s never managed. Even though he knows, he _knows_ to his core Mollymauk is lying to charm Lord Damon-Cowles, his fool’s heart wonders what it might be like. To trace fingers on the inside of Molly’s wrist. To have Molly look at him like that. 

The ball around them continues on, a million little dramas and conversations, whispered gossip and shocked laughter, flirtations and broken hearts beneath the flickering enchanted candles. For the most part, Caleb is heedless of everything else but Mollymauk, laughing and smiling with somebody else, until a metallic rapping from the bandstand catches his ear. 

The leader of the musicians, a rather dashing halfling wearing an outrageous pair of trousers, is tapping on their music stand with the edge of their bow. “One last dance for the hour!” they’re calling. “We break for the fireworks display in the main garden, this is the last dance until then!” 

A collective murmur of interest raises around the room. Couples begin flocking to the marble floor, abandoning plates and glasses of sparkling wine. 

From where he is, Caleb can see Mollymauk’s lips forming words, even though he’s nowhere near enough to hear them: “Care for a dance, your Lordship?” 

To his horror, Lord Damon-Cowles bows deeply, offering Molly his hand. Smoothly they step to the floor, effortless in the way Caleb hadn’t managed when he and Mollymauk danced. 

 _Okay_ , Caleb thinks. _Fine_. 

He glances around, searching amidst the crowd. When he finds who he’s looking for he marches over, realizing too late that he should probably change his expression to something more pleasant. Gilmore, leaning with practiced insouciance against a marble pillar, raises his eyebrows. 

“Would - er - that is,” Caleb stammers, distracted momentarily by the flash of spinning violet skirts on the dancefloor as Molly gives a playful little twirl. “Would you still like that dance?” 

Gilmore slowly sips his wine. “You have changed your mind?” 

“ _Ja_ ,” Caleb says firmly. “I - I apologize. For earlier. I realized too late I was very rude to you.” 

Face breaking out into a brilliant smile, Gilmore gives a little flourish of his hand and lazily drifts his empty wine glass onto a waiter’s tray. “My dear Caleb,” he says, offering him his arm. “It’s not rude to turn down a dance if you don’t feel like it. That said, I am _very_ happy you changed your mind.” 

Gilmore’s arm is very warm as they find a place towards the middle of the dance floor. He leads Caleb with confidence, smiling and deftly apologizing for any brushes against fellow party-goers, until they are established nicely near the bandstand. The floor is intensely crowded, a crush of bodies in fine dress, but there is enough room to maneuver if the dancers stand close, nearly chest to chest, toe to toe. 

Caleb can’t see how close Damon-Cowles is standing to Mollymauk. He doesn’t want to. 

Gilmore sets his hands on Caleb’s sides, as is appropriate for the dance, as Caleb rests his own on Gilmore’s damask-clad shoulders. The gentle weight of his fingertips makes Caleb flush. It is an intimate touch, still entirely appropriate, but no one has stood this close with such warmth in their eyes in a long time. 

Overhead, the lighting shifts from petal pink to a springtime green, fresh as new grass, and the band strikes up another melody.

It begins with only the violin, stark yet strangely effusive in its flourishes. As one the dancers move, close together, eye to eye, the hushed steps of hundreds of feet moving in unison on marble tile. Caleb follows Gilmore’s lead, grounding himself with the luxurious rasp of expensive robes on his fingertips.

A flute joins the violin, then the deeper viol, as the dancers turn, stepping lightly in their own respective orbits. Caleb can feel his heart in his throat when he catches a sweep of violet skirts in the corner of his eye, bu then realizes it is a human woman with her ash-blonde hair piled high atop her head, and not Mollymauk at all. 

Then Jester’s voice erupts in his head again. 

“ _Hi Caleb! We’re good to go! Lord Fancypants can come home whenever he wants, we’ve got what we need, hope you’ve kissed Molly by now!”_  

He flinches, but nevertheless feels the warm glow of a strange sort of pride at her managing to stick to the constraints of the word count when he’s recovered from the shock. He glances at Gilmore, then decides the man has probably dealt with worse. 

“ _Ja_ , be safe getting home,” he says, figuring that message is safe enough for Gilmore to hear. When he looks back at his dance partner, the merchant’s smile is perhaps a bit too knowing. 

“You got a Message?” he asks. Caleb feels himself turning red again anyway. 

“ _Ja,_ that is - we have friends who couldn’t make it to the ball,” he says. To his surprise, Gilmore just chuckles as they dance. 

“Reminds me of some friends I once had,” he says, and Caleb is surprised to hear the weight of nostalgia settle into his voice. “You might want to consider enchanting some earrings to message back and forth, if you don’t mind the suggestion.” 

“Not at all,” Caleb says. Earrings are, actually, rather a good idea - he knows he will look a fool with one, so he will pass and stick to his copper wire, but Jester and Nott will be thrilled at the prospect of enchanted jewelry. Molly will as well, he knows, and feels a sour curdle in the pit of his stomach. 

“What brings you to Zadash, Mister Gilmore?” Caleb asks, to change the topic and shake himself out of it. “From our previous conversation I gathered you were from foreign parts.”

“Shaun, please,” Gilmore - Shaun - twinkles at him. “And business, actually. I came to Zadash to speak to a local purveyor of rare, fine, and magical goods, being in that business myself.” 

“Was this fellow merchant Pumat Sol?” Caleb allows Gilmore to give him a little spin, hands lingering after the spin has ended. Perhaps Caleb doesn’t mind that so much. 

Shaun smiles widely, teeth gleaming and white. “The very same! The Invulnerable Vagrant is a local institution - a landmark, even. Once I heard of its reputation I simply had to come take it all in for myself. But what about you, Caleb? What brings you to Zadash, from the Zemni Fields?”

“Likewise,” Caleb responds. “Business.” It is the safest answer, and at least for tonight he looks like he could very well be a successful noveau-riche, or a minor aristocrat. It is not a comfortable part, but he can play it as best he can.

And, well. Shaun Gilmore does not have to know that Caleb’s business is separating a stack of incriminating documents from their wealthy nobleman. 

A swell in music, prompting the dancers to change their direction from clockwise to counter-clockwise as they circle around the nexus of hands, raised and joined, palm-to-palm. Gilmore also has very warm hands, Caleb notices, and wonders if Lord Damon-Cowles is noticing this same thing about his dance partner. 

As they circle, eyes locked, Gilmore’s expression mellows from shining to merely warm bordering on - unless Caleb is very much imagining it - heated. He clears his throat. 

“And were that business to turn into pleasure?” he asks mildly, as if they were casually discussing the weather outside or the wonderful deal Pumat has on inks.

They stand opposite each other and bow, much the same as a group dance, as the music ends with a melancholy trill of the violin, and Caleb mulls over his answer. But before he can even speak, something behind Caleb’s shoulder catches Gilmore’s eye. His dark eyebrows raise, equal parts shock and amusement. 

“On second thought,” he says, calm as anything, “perhaps not.” 

Caleb is stunned for a moment. His chest grows cold from mortification, then hot with outrage, and he opens his mouth to demand why when Shaun gives a little shake of the head. 

“I think you and your friend need to have a conversation,” he says. “Caleb, it has been a pleasure. Should you and your companions find yourselves in Tal’Dorei, please come find me - Gilmore’s Glorious Goods,” he adds, giving Caleb a showman’s smile and bowing before following the rest of the migrating crowd out the tall glass doors to the balcony, where Caleb can already see flashes of fireworks beginning. 

Then he turns around and realizes why Shaun was so keen to turn tail: Mollymauk, striding over like a fury in a lace-filigree ballgown. 

“We need to talk.” His voice is flat, his eyes betray nothing, but - unless Caleb is imagining this - there’s anger in the purse of his lips.

 _Good_ , hisses the vindictive little portion of Caleb’s brain. _Let him be angry_. 

“About what?” 

“I - not here,” Molly says, with a glance over his shoulder. Two of the musicians, lingering on the dais, are looking far too curious about the conversation.

“Fine.” Caleb mentally casts about for somewhere quiet they won’t be heard. With the fireworks going on outside, the rest of the manor is bound to be quiet. It shouldn’t be too hard to find an unoccupied room to have a conversation in. 

If it will end up being a conversation. Molly is completely silent following him down a hall and up a half-flight of marble stairs, and on the next landing their footfalls are abruptly silenced by lush carpeting that sinks underfoot like thick moss. Caleb tries the nearest door, finds it is unlocked, and opens it. 

“Of course you’d find the library,” Molly comments, as Caleb shuts the door behind them. Damn the conversation they need to have, Caleb wants to examine the leatherbound tomes on the nearest shelf, tempting as a siren’s call. The air smells like paper and dust, earthy and real. The scent grounds him, makes him feel more like himself after the perfume and flowers and candle wax of the ballroom. “All right, now that we have some privacy - what the _fuck_ , Caleb?” 

“ _Was_?” Caleb turns around from his examination of a book spine - he thinks the embossed gold title is in Aquan, but he can’t be sure - to see Molly, arms crossed over the bodice of his gown, incandescent with anger. “What do you mean, what the fuck?” 

Molly scoffs. “It’s not flattering for a man of your intelligence to play stupid, Caleb. What were you playing at?” 

“I’m not playing,” Caleb snaps. It’s probably not a good idea to get defensive, but after spending the last hour watching Molly charm someone else, he’s primed and ready to be in a bad mood, frustration spilling over.

“It sure looked like you were,” Molly says, scowling. “You looked very cozy with his hands all on your waist and -” 

He can’t finish that last because Caleb is suddenly _laughing_ in sheer incredulity. “That is what this is about? Me, dancing with Shaun? Really?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Molly says. He sounds exasperated. Heels still muffled by the thick rug running in the main aisle between the bookshelves, he begins to pace back and forth. The layers of fabric in his skirts rustle loudly. “ _Shaun_ , I didn’t realize you two were on first name terms. You should go back downstairs and find _Shaun_ , then, don’t let me stop you.” 

“Why are you being like this?” Caleb demands. “You were dancing with Damon-Cowles - you have been dancing with other people all evening! Don’t give me your double standard about -” 

“I was dancing with Damon-Cowles because it _wasn’t real_ ,” Molly interrupts. Caleb risks looking at his face and - oh. 

He has never seen tears gathering in the corners of Molly’s eyes before. Not even at the Nein’s worst moments - never. 

It is terrible and he wishes he could look away, erase what he’s just seen from his perfect memory. But Molly’s continuing, like the base of a dam has been chipped away and now everything’s come flooding out. 

“I was dancing with that dullard and laughing at his horrible jokes and pretending I had taken a shine to him because I had to, Caleb, I _had to_ for the fucking job. Not a breath of it was real,” he says. “And then I looked up and you were dancing with him and that - that was real.”

Molly isn’t yelling. In fact, the longer he goes on, the more quiet he gets, until he sounds hushed and defeated. Caleb can only stand between a row of shelves, dumbfounded, as Molly turns from him, arms crossed tight over his chest to look out the row of windows on the far wall. 

Fireworks thunder from beyond the manor balconies, but they’re so muffled in the library they might as well be miles away. In the dim light, Molly is silhouetted by the pops and flashes of each little explosion, a dark figure with shaking shoulders standing in front of so much light. 

Suddenly Caleb is floundering. The vindictive portion of him has abruptly died away, leaving nothing but a deep-reaching and icy numbness in his chest. He does not want to see Molly upset, to be the cause of his anger or his sadness. 

Oh, he has been a fool.

He hesitates for several long seconds, before stepping towards Mollymauk and the windows. The fireworks are still bursting brilliantly, and closer to the glass Caleb can hear the distant awed murmurs and applause of the partygoers on the balconies outside. 

When he rests his hand on Molly’s shoulder, Molly flinches but does not pull away. 

“Mollymauk,” Caleb says, heart a constricted knot in his chest. Standing this close again he can once more smell Molly’s perfume - fainter, but still glowing, jasmine petals in a dusty library. “Mollymauk, I have been an ass. I am sorry.” 

“No, you’re - you’re right,” Molly says. His voice is thick but he’s rallying, attempting for his customary good humor. “I have been dancing with other people all night -”

“You were having fun,” Caleb says, thinking of the flush of pleasure on Molly’s face as he danced quadrilles and galops with the other partygoers, alight with happiness, with music, with the joy of being alive in a beautiful room, surrounded by people enjoying themselves. This close, down the plunging neckline of Molly’s bodice, Caleb can see the pitted crater of scar tissue on his chest. A stark reminder. “You, out of all of us, deserve to have fun, Mollymauk.” 

Molly sniffs, and finally looks up at Caleb. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he says, very hushed, “but I’d prefer to be having fun with you.” 

Caleb feels his cheeks grow hot, but this time it’s not simply embarrassment. Suddenly he grows very aware that his hand has not left Molly’s shoulder, and they are standing very close, overlooking a beautifully manicured evening garden in which fireworks are blooming. 

Then the door opens and Caleb hears a very posh sort of voice, female, mid-sentence. “- I apologize for the delay, I’ve scarcely been able to get away from the crush all evening, but the book is this way, Archmage -” 

Then an older male voice, well-mannered and horribly familiar, not a few moments behind. “Please, don’t worry about it, Lady Shellford. I appreciate you taking the trouble.” 

Caleb freezes. _How did he find me,_ he thinks, a statue of horror unable to flee or hide. _He was not supposed to be able to find me -_  

Several things happen at once. 

Even as he is certain, so certain he can feel the pervasive arcane energy of Trent Ikithon fill the room, as if he is being suffocated by the man’s aura alone, Caleb is whirled so his back is facing the door; he hears a brief exclamation of surprise from the feminine voice. It takes a second or two for his brain to function through the shock before he realizes that Mollymauk is - 

Mollymauk is _kissing him_. 

“Oh,” comes the slightly-scandalized voice of Lady Shellford, because Mollymauk is kissing him like he means it, arms around Caleb to clutch his shoulders and fist into his hair, careful not to pull his hair out from its tie. Belatedly Caleb realizes he should be kissing back, and wraps his own arms around Molly’s waist, pulling them flush together and chasing the press of Molly’s lips.

“I believe we are interrupting something, Lady Shellford,” Trent Ikithon is saying, but he sounds - vaguely amused? Caleb has not heard amusement in the Archmage’s voice since he was a young teenager; it sounds wrong - 

But he is getting distracted from kissing Mollymauk like his life depends on it. 

Parting his lips to yield to Mollymauk’s tongue, he shudders from the terrible realization that yes, his life does very much depend on it. 

“I suppose we should - come back later,” Lady Shellford’s saying, voice high and uncomfortable, and about ten seconds later the door clicks shut again.

Caleb breaks away, feeling like he’s bright red from his ears down to the tips of his toes. “Gods, thank you, Mollymauk, I would have never - _thank you_ ,” he repeats, emphatically. “I heard his voice and it was like I was turned to stone - I didn’t even know he was here, he must have arrived earlier, I -” 

But Mollymauk isn’t responding. He’s just looking at Caleb, something unfathomable in his eyes. Caleb can see his wine-colored lipstick is now faintly smudged, and realizes faintly, _I did that_. 

They are still standing so close, the lace of Molly’s bodice rasps against the velvet of Caleb’s coat. All he can smell is jasmine; he can feel Molly’s heart pounding from where his hands are pressed to his sides. 

“Mollymauk,” he breathes. It is a question, and not a question.

“Mister Caleb.” It’s all the answer he needs. 

Slowly, feeling slightly dizzy, Caleb leans in and kisses Molly again. 

It’s muted, sweet. A brush of lips, a shared sigh. Caleb feels Molly’s grip on his shoulders relax until he’s wrapped in a soft embrace, not being clutched for dear life as he presses his lips firmly to Molly’s. 

Their noses bump, and he feels Molly give a breathless laugh before tilting his head just so, and then they’re really kissing, Molly’s plush and winestained lips seamlessly yielding to Caleb’s slightly chapped ones. A little thready rush bubbles up in Caleb’s chest, and it hits him harder than any of the evening’s drinks had - he is here, in this amazing library likely full of rare books, having just escaped discovery by his former teacher and most reviled enemy, because brilliant, perfect, beautiful Molly kissed him. More stunning than that, Molly wants to _keep_ kissing him.

They have to break for breath, eventually. Caleb can only hold Molly and marvel at him. 

“What?” Molly shifts under Caleb’s gaze after several moments. He doesn’t seem entirely uncomfortable at Caleb’s prolonged stare; he even preens a bit. Of course he does. Caleb fell in love with a peacock, after all - _just his kind of ostentatious_ , he thinks, suddenly a little giddy.

“Nothing,” he says. “I was just thinking.” 

“About?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Caleb says, and leans in to kiss Mollymauk again. 

Fireworks burst in myriad colors beyond the glass as they kiss, slow and unhurried. It has been so long since Caleb has allowed anyone this close, since he has explored another’s lips and tongue and the barest edge of teeth that scrape along his lower lip, causing him to shiver and Mollymauk to smile against his mouth. It feels right: Mollymauk’s arms around him again, the way he meets Caleb in a kiss that is so like dancing itself - following the press of his mouth, neither yielding nor pursuing, allowing Caleb to be the one to deepen the kiss when he desires more than just the plush press of lips. 

And that is the other strange sensation of the evening, foreign yet familiar, like a tune he hasn’t heard since his youth. Desire. It burns bright at his core, shivering heat that surges in anticipation when Mollymauk’s long nails scrape up the back of his coat along his spine to trace along his collar, to his neck. He gives a full-body shudder against Mollymauk, wanting. Breathless with it. 

“Mollymauk,” he says again. He has to close his eyes, drop his head to Molly’s shoulder. Inhale the scent of jasmine and warm skin. It wouldn’t feel real, if it were not for the prickling rasp of Molly’s nails on the back of his neck. Something good, something pleasant - and this is his. He wouldn’t dare think it possible if he weren’t right here.

“Mister Caleb,” Mollymauk hums, sounding very pleased. 

“I -” Caleb says, and stops short. Gods, he is so impossibly in love. He feels he might expire on the spot with it, drop dead utterly overcome with love. He can’t find the words to _say_ it, though, so when he looks back up at Mollymauk he tries to ask without words, tries to make Mollymauk _see -_  

Mollymauk nods, clever tongue darting out to wet his lips. He is going to have to reapply his lipstick before they leave this room. “Yes, Caleb - _please_.”

Caleb sinks to his knees.

Above him, Molly gives a sharp intake of breath as Caleb’s trembling hands begin to hitch up the voluminous skirts of his ballgown. Caleb tries to go slow, to convey every movement, as much for his own benefit as for Molly’s. He meets Molly’s eyes as he holds the skirts up with one hand, hoping this is good, hoping that this is all right, as he runs a reverent finger across the bony knob of Molly’s left ankle. He sees the soft flesh of his thighs break into gooseflesh even as Molly laughs breathlessly, and he does it again. 

“What are you doing down there?” Molly’s voice is - indescribable, beyond words. Like he wants to laugh, but his voice is thick with something else.

“You have beautiful ankles,” Caleb says, which is as good an answer as any. He traces his finger around the delicate bone again, marveling - was it really only a few hours ago that he noticed Mollymauk’s ankles in these high heels back at the inn, and felt like he had to look away? Like these vulnerable parts of him were something he shouldn’t see? 

“I _what.”_ Mollymauk does laugh this time, full of delight. Caleb inches forward and lets the armfuls of skirts he’s gathered up drop over his head, so he’s cocooned next to Mollymauk’s legs beneath a tent of chiffon, and Mollymauk’s laugh turns into a gasp.

“And beautiful calves,” Caleb says, cupping his hands around Molly’s calves and running his hands up, so slowly. The skin is smooth, with the exception of an occasional scar here and there, and he can feel strong muscle beneath. “And beautiful knees.” 

When Caleb kisses Molly’s knees, first the left, then the right, a louder gasp comes from above him. It’s so starkly loud in the silent library, Caleb can almost hear it resound off the shelves. He runs fingertips up the backs of Molly’s calves, to the apparently tickling backs of his knees, up to the soft flesh of his thighs, less trim and muscular than his calves but no less appealing for it. Caleb wants to kiss those thighs, rub his face against them until they’re raw, press adoring bites to the soft skin of his inner thighs. 

He wants, and wants, and wants. 

He kisses Mollymauk’s knees again, tasting the salt of dried sweat and lightly floral soap on his lips. “Is - is it all right if I -” 

“Gods, Caleb, _yes_ ,” says Molly above him, with a touch of sweet exasperation. “If I didn’t want you under there I’d have said something by now.” 

Reassured, Caleb feels bold enough to trace his hands up, to follow the path of his hands with his mouth. Molly’s soft moan goes straight to his gut, desire burning low and hot as he tastes his skin. His fine trousers are getting uncomfortably tight, and he has to palm himself through the linen as he kisses up Molly’s thighs. Molly is unsurprisingly vocal when Caleb’s tongue darts out to taste him, and he spreads his legs to accommodate Caleb as much as he can while still standing. 

“Are you going to be all right?” Caleb asks, drawing away with a final nip to Molly’s soft skin. It is one thing to have Molly’s assurance that he is welcome to do whatever he pleases beneath Molly’s dress; it’s another thing to have Molly teeter over in his high heels as soon as Caleb gets his mouth on him. 

“You act as if I’ve never done this in these shoes before,” Molly laughs, and while Caleb feels a twinge of jealousy - who, and when? - it is easy to dismiss in favor of touching Molly again. 

He hears Molly’s breath come faster when his hands slide further up, taking firm handfuls of his ass and kneading, almost transfixed by the feeling of warm skin beneath lace fabric. By now Molly’s hard enough to strain the front of his panties, and Caleb is almost dizzy with desire, feeling his temples beading wth sweat, feeling arousal run through him with each beat of his racing heart. 

When he finally begins to work the lace panties down Molly’s thighs, the sharp cry Molly gives is overwhelmingly loud in the silent library; Caleb finds himself murmuring soothing words as he presses kiss after kiss to Molly’s inner thighs. He wants to do this forever - to soothe Molly’s helpless, aroused noises even as he causes them. He never wants to stop touching Molly. Now that he’s started, he doesn’t think he can. 

The air beneath Molly’s skirt is slightly humid and smells of clean sweat and the scent of Molly’s sex. Caleb strokes the curve of Molly’s ass with one palm as he takes a moment to simply _look_ at Molly. He’s so hard Caleb almost winces with sympathy, flushed dark purple at the head where dewy wetness is gathering. Caleb’s mouth waters. He trails a finger up Molly’s inner thigh, causing the tiefling to squirm in place, and traces the neat line of dark purple curls above Molly’s cock, earning a breathless sort of whimper for his efforts. 

“Caleb.” There’s a delicate plea threaded Molly’s voice. Caleb can imagine his scarred chest heaving in the bodice of his gown, breathless. “I never thought you’d be one to tease.” 

“I am not teasing,” Caleb says, which is a damn filthy lie and he knows it. Unable to resist one more feather-light touching, he runs his short nails up the tender insides of Molly’s thighs, earning a stifled curse that sounds suspiciously like Infernal for his efforts. A moment later, two hands descend onto his head through the skirts and through the rustling of chiffon and lace he can hear Molly panting, and that, above everything else, makes him take pity on him at last.

He presses closer if possible, sliding his hands up Molly’s legs from flank to hip, his grip on Molly’s hips firm and grounding as he finally leans in and gently touches his tongue to the tip of Molly’s cock. Bitter and salty-sweet, the flavor floods his mouth while Molly moans loudly above him, helpless. 

“Gods, Caleb,” Molly begins. Caleb shuts him up by fitting his mouth around the head, relishing the sharp intake of breath from Molly as he gives an experimental suck. Those hands resting on his head scrabble at his hair, unable to get purchase on anything through the silky fabric of Molly’s skirts. The muscles of Molly’s thighs tremble minutely under Caleb’s hands as he sinks lower on his cock, delicately running his tongue along the thick veins along the underside. 

It has been so long since Caleb has done - well, anything like this, but it doesn’t seem to matter how badly out of practice he is. Much like his dancing, he thinks dryly, drawing back and giving the ridged frenulum a clever flick of his tongue that leaves Mollymauk gasping before dragging his tongue slowly back down the length of him. This close he can’t smell anything but Mollymauk; his senses completely overwhelmed by the taste of him, the sound of his helplessly aroused noises, the weight of hot skin on Caleb’s tongue. It’s almost enough to make him forget where he is, which is an odd sensation in itself - the entire world boiling down to this moment, beyond his anxieties and heartaches. Just his mouth on Molly’s skin. 

Mollymauk is a trembling mess by the time Caleb gets to sucking him in earnest. Caleb can’t see him through the skirts, but imagines there might be tears in Mollymauk’s eyes, smudging the exquisitely applied gold eyeliner. He imagines there might be beads of sweat plastering his curls to his forehead, that he might be biting his lower lip and smudging the beautiful lipstick. Suddenly Caleb is irritated that he can’t actually see Molly during this, but is soothed by the thought that this is only the first time, and not likely to be the last. 

Gods, he cannot wait to get his hands on Mollymauk when they’re not in Lady Shellford’s library. 

The thought makes him groan, low and deep, around Molly’s cock. He swallows around it, jaw aching sweetly, mouth flooded with saliva and the taste of Mollymauk, and feels a change in Molly’s breathing, his posture. Under his hands the muscles in Molly’s thighs grow taut. Caleb hears the rustle of the ballgown as Molly shifts and trembles, almost curling around Caleb, vulnerable and sweet. The taste of Mollymauk’s pre-spend grows sharper, and Caleb hopes he’s doing the right thing when he pulls back to suck on just the head, fingers digging into Molly’s hips as if spurring him towards orgasm. 

Once, twice, Molly’s hips involuntarily thrust forward, and that’s the only warning Caleb gets before Molly’s coming in his mouth, breath shuddering out of him, his entire body shaking above Caleb. 

Caleb closes his eyes as Molly’s shudders subside, as he grows soft and overly sensitive in Caleb’s mouth. He wants to remember this. Every searing detail, the taste of bitter salt and Mollymauk’s skin - he has to remember this. 

Panting, Molly pats somewhere in the vicinity of Caleb’s head beneath his skirts. “Come up here, darling,” he murmurs. “I want to see you.” 

It’s a job extricating himself from the tangle of skirts. Easing back and slowly rising to his feet, knees protesting vehemently even as the rest of him is filled with heat and satisfaction, Caleb takes in the high color on Molly’s cheeks and the bitten mess of his lips. If he thought he was beautiful descending the stairs at the inn, the sight of Molly flushed with sex just about knocks the feet out from under him. Before he can stop himself, he’s leaning in and kissing Mollymauk again. 

Molly hums happily. His lips yield to Caleb’s, parting to taste himself on Caleb’s tongue. “You’re amazing,” he says against Caleb’s lips once they part. 

Caleb shifts uncomfortably. “I am hardly that.” 

“You are,” Molly insists, circling one arm around Caleb’s hips, the other going straight for the tent in Caleb’s trousers. His lips curl with delight. “Anything you’d like me to take care of?” 

Caleb considers this, even as his hips surge forward. “Ah - not yet,” he says at last. Difficult as it is to gently push Molly’s hand away, now that the lid has been thrown open on the locked box of his desires, he finds he wants more than a quick fuck in the library. He wants Molly in a room with a proper bed, wants to strip him of clothing piece by piece, wants to feel the naked press of skin to tattooed skin. “Could we - later? At the inn?” 

Molly’s response is to kiss him again, which Caleb takes for a yes. 

It’s some minutes before they’re presentable enough to go back downstairs. Molly straightens his skirts and pulls a lace-trimmed handkerchief from somewhere in his bodice, dabbing at his smudged makeup until he looks thoroughly put together, save for his lipstick being a touch faded. Caleb, for his part, examines book titles on the shelves and allows his brain to regain control of his body until he’s no longer at risk of offending anybody. There are several intriguing titles alongside the standard tomes of familial legacies and books of Imperial history, so much so that he’s tempted to spend the rest of the night reading - but then he remembers who had walked in on them, and the blood in his veins grows cold. 

“Are you ready?” Molly asks, briskly stepping closer to the door. 

“Mollymauk - what if - Ikithon is still out there,” Caleb says. 

“He won’t look at you, darling.” Molly brings a hand up to cup Caleb’s cheek. “We just fucked in the library; no one is going to want to make eye contact with anyone after catching them going at it. And it’s not like he and Lady Shellford are going to be hanging around outside the door; that would make them look like colossal perverts and their reputations couldn’t bear that.” He gives Caleb a cheeky wink, which doesn’t do much to settle his nerves. 

He’s skeptical, and even as Molly’s hand finds his when they open the massive door he’s mentally preparing spells in case they need to flee. Gods, he is such a fool, leaving his spell components in his favored coat instead of bringing anything in this fine, expensive jacket. Mollymauk might have something up his sleeve if Caleb is recognized, but he knows that Ikithon will completely outmatch the two of them together - 

There is no one on the stairs. The sounds of the party, music and laughter, have resumed and echo down the hall. 

Mollymauk squeezes his hand, and there is such naked affection in his eyes when Caleb meets his gaze that he thinks, perhaps - perhaps it will be all right.

 

 

***

 

 

Even though there are no clocks, Caleb can tell it’s reaching the small hours of the morning. Despite this, and exquisitely-dressed partygoers beginning to leave in twos and threes, yawning behind silk gloves, there is still a crowd of people continuing to dance and drink and gossip. 

Molly surveys the room, sipping another glass of wine. “You know,” he says, “I can’t see Lord Damon-Cowles - I think he went home.” 

“Oh,” Caleb says. “I, uh - Jester contacted me. During the last dance. They made a clean escape and didn’t need us to delay him further, I just -” 

“Got distracted?” Molly says, with a knowing smile behind the rim of his wineglass. 

“You could say that. I forgot until this moment.” Caleb feels hot with embarrassment, even as Molly chuckles and leans in to kiss his check. “Jester also told me to kiss you,” he blurts out, feeling like this is somehow pertinent information. 

Molly’s eyebrows raise, even as he tries valiantly to suppress the shit-eating grin Caleb knows he wants to unleash. “Did she now?”

“Twice,” he says. “Something about doing it before midnight.”

“Smart girl,” Molly says with a laugh. “Well, Mister Caleb? Did we make the deadline?” 

Caleb casts his mind back to the library, to the argument and then the hurried kiss that started - everything. He was absolutely distracted in the moment, but his perfect sense of time is always true. “Does it matter if we missed it by a few minutes?” he says at last. 

Molly snorts. “No, it probably doesn’t.”

“ _Gut_ ,” Caleb says, allowing Molly to press another glass of wine into one hand. Together they lapse into a companionable silence, watching the band play and the dancers whirling on the marble floor. It is much as it was earlier, except this time Caleb feels Molly’s fingers reach for his and twine together. 

The music softens as the night deepens. Caleb cannot tell if it is because both band and dancers are tiring, or if the mood has gotten more subdued, somehow more intimate. Beyond the massive doors with their panes of glass that lead out onto the manor’s balconies, Caleb can see a midnight sky strewn with stars. The wine fizzes on his tongue, the alcohol burns warm in his gut and something about the moment feels - right. Ripe with opportunity. Watching the dancers, he realizes he is thinking about tomorrow, and the next day, without dread.

Molly’s fingers are still tangled in his. The band plays on, low and sweet. 

“Mister Mollymauk,” Caleb says, setting his wineglass aside. “May I have this dance?”

 


	2. epilogue

Late morning light streaming through the windows catches the thread-of-gold and sequins adorning the bodice of a violet and ivory ballgown, now lying in a crumpled heap on the wooden floorboards. The high heeled shoes have landed in opposite sides of the room, kicked off in the small hours of the night by one Mollymauk Tealeaf before he clambered into bed with one Caleb Widogast, swapping leisurely kisses and whispering at each other beneath the covers, voices muted by the dark of night.

Mollymauk is no less delighted now, by the light of day, than he was last night. He wraps his arms around Caleb’s back, reveling in the feeling of sweat-damp skin that raises in gooseflesh when he runs his nails down Caleb’s back to his arse. Above him, Caleb shivers, his thrusts faltering.

“Mollymauk,” he breathes against Molly’s neck. There’s playful warning in his voice, above the sleepy sort of heat that started this whole thing - the quiet growl that sleep lent to his voice. They’d woken together still entwined after last night, and it hadn’t taken much to convince Caleb, warm in their bed and hard from sleep, to open him with his fingers and then his cock.

Molly stretches languidly, noting how the shift makes Caleb’s eyelids flicker. “Yes, Mister Caleb?”

Caleb leans in closer, rolling his hips in a way that leaves Molly groaning, and delicately he kisses Molly’s forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose.

Gods above, Molly adores this man. He adored him before he even put on the velvet coat and tied his clean hair back, but he especially adores him now that they’re pressed close and he can smell the last traces of Caleb’s cologne and the scent of his sleep-warm skin.

Finally kissing him properly, Caleb begins to murmur, “I -”

The door flies open, kicked in by a whirl of blue and pretty skirts, slamming against the wall.

“ _MOLLY HOLY FUCK!_ ”

Molly, well, he doesn’t quite scream, but it’s a close thing. Caleb yelps and jerks backwards, pulling the rumpled blankets over the both of them and letting loose a string of oaths in Zemnian. Jester, for her part, doesn’t blink or gloat at the sight of them in bed, but she is wiggling where she stands in the way that usually heralds some important gossip.

“ _Jester_ ,” Molly groans, running his hands through his hair. Caleb drops his head to Molly’s shoulder, presumably staring at the pillow and willing himself into nonexistence rather than deal with their cleric right now. “Jester, doors are usually locked for a _reason_.”

“Yes, I know, but I wouldn’t unlock it if I didn’t have a really _really_ good reason to,” she says fervently. “Also, good morning, Caleb! Are you two having fun?”

Caleb makes a sound similar to someone expiring against Molly’s shoulder.

“What did you need, Jester?” Molly brings his hands up to rub Caleb’s shoulders, hoping it dissolves some of the mortification and gives the poor man a little comfort. But that turns out to be a mistake, for Jester notices the little soothing movements of his hands beneath the blankets, and a smug little smile crosses her face that she hastily and very poorly tries to hide.

“Beau!” she calls out into the hallway. “Come tell Molly and Caleb what you heard!”

Beau does a double take, and then a triple take, when she sees Caleb atop Molly in a way that is quite literally impossible to misinterpret; Caleb only makes another “ _Mrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhh_ ” dying noise of embarrassment. Molly can’t help but smirk when Beau pointedly turns and talks at the wall rather than looking at him and Caleb.

“She was in -” Jester pipes up, before Beau interrupts.

“Fuck’s sakes, let me tell it if you’re gonna drag me in here and look at the purple one all naked and sweaty, and - gross,” she gripes. “I was in the market district, picking up some breakfast when I passed by this town crier -”

“And the town crier was saying -!!” Jester is unable to rein in her enthusiasm, bouncing in place.

Beau rolls her eyes. “The town crier was yelling something like, ‘Any information on the whereabouts of the purple mystery tiefling at Lady Shellford’s gala last night will be rewarded -”

Molly’s blood runs cold. He doesn’t know how they were recognized - was it Ikithon? Had he remembered Molly from all those months ago at the Victory Pit and put two and two together? Had he put Caleb in danger after all?

But then Beau continues, still talking at the wall, “only then there was some shit about, like, ‘Please give any information to Lord Remington Damon-Cowles at the estate of Bronzeport, as finding this charming beauty is the only remedy to his heartache,’ blah blah blah, the gist of it was that rich asshole wants to find you and marry you and is willing to pay some serious coin to anyone who helps.”

It’s a bit anticlimactic; Jester deflates visibly before punching Beau’s shoulder. “You could have made it sound more romantic than that, Beau!”

“Ow!” Beau hisses, rubbing where she is probably going to have a Jester-induced bruise. “Then why’d you drag me in here if you were gonna give me shit about how I told them -”

“ _Ladies_ ,” Molly says, exasperated. He looks pointedly at the door several times until Beau gets the hint, dragging Jester out by the sleeve. “And for fuck’s sakes, lock it behind you!” he calls after them, which of course, they don’t bother doing.

Caleb has gone completely soft by now, slipping out of Molly with a wet drag of lubricant against Molly’s thigh. He’s still burrowed into the relative safety of Molly’s shoulder, and Molly can feel how warm his face is. He doesn’t need to see him to know that the wizard is probably lobster-red and flustered.

“Well, how about that,” he muses aloud, returning to stroking Caleb’s back until the man rouses.

“I could tell,” Caleb mumbles against his skin. “I knew he was falling in love with you last night.”

“I was laying the charm on pretty thick,” Molly admits. Caleb finally lifts his head and yes, he is redder than a boiled beet and can’t meet Molly’s eyes.

“I understand if, if you -” Caleb begins, and abruptly falls silent. It takes Molly a few moments to tease out what he’s getting at, and can only stare at him in return.

“Caleb,” he says firmly, tapping him on the chin with one nail until Caleb finally, finally looks at him. “I have no interest in marrying Lord Damon-Cowles. I have no interest in ever seeing him again, which, we’re probably going to have to skip town until that poor dope stops pining away for me atop his piles of money.”

He leans in, asking a silent question, and is answered when Caleb closes his eyes and tilts his head for a kiss. It was hard to say anything last night at the ball, with so much around them and between them, and he didn’t get the opportunity to say anything as they fell into bed early in the morning as his mouth was a bit too occupied. But now, kissing Caleb in the golden light of day, he feels he’s standing with his toes on the edge of something too vast for him to see. It’s only mildly terrifying, knowing that if he takes a step forward there’s no going back.

But then they part, and Caleb’s eyes are so blue in the morning sun, and he’s still red in the cheeks but there’s more of a smile present in his lips than there was before. Perhaps it’s unconscious; perhaps he can’t help but smile.

Molly thinks he’s going to have to steel himself for this confession, and is surprised to find he doesn’t have to. This is easy. This is long overdue. He pulls Caleb in for another brief kiss and says, “There’s a big difference between you and Lord Damon-Cowles, you know.”

He sees Caleb’s wheels turning, thinking quietly. “What is that?” he asks, probably thinking about money, or titles, or a past with less heartache and a future with less trouble.

“You’re easy to love,” Molly says. He’s unable to keep himself from smiling as he says it. The truth of it is like warmth in his very bones. “And I do. I love you, Mister Caleb.”

Caleb blinks at him, just long enough that he starts to get nervous, before the softest smile Molly has ever seen breaks across his face, and then he’s murmuring something in Zemnian that Molly doesn’t understand but feels the tone of, before they’re kissing again. And again, and again, and again.

They don’t leave the room for several hours after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for reading, and for leaving comments+kudos! To those who have commented previously, you have my sincere gratitude - I'm so happy this silly self-indulgent fic turned out to be not so self-indulgent at all ;)

**Author's Note:**

> For those curious, Mollymauk's dress is here: http://fashion-runways.tumblr.com/post/111270252061/reem-acra-at-new-york-fashion-week-fall-2015
> 
> A brief epilogue will be posted shortly.


End file.
